Growing up rurally, there isn’t really a whole lot to do besides drink, drug, and drive around. As soon as you turn 16 in south-central Ontario, you gradually begin your driving journey and become reliant on a vehicle as your life suddenly fills up with shit to do. When I began working part-time in town, my parents loaned me my dad’s 2003 Nissan XTerra, a bulky, grey SUV with a front grille bar that threatened to breach the front interior of the vehicle. While under parental restrictions I ignored, having a car granted me the first of the many substantial freedoms I currently enjoy, and the “driver” identifier soon became subsumed into my developing self. 

In the internal Rolodex in my high school friends’ minds, I’d wager I would be found filed under “friend who drives.” I soon became the go-to chauffeur for hangouts in various loitering spots around Orillia, ON, whipping around carelessly while listening to the music du jour. I would always agree to these trips, it made me useful and fostered a weak sense of belonging I clung to, but I was a pisspoor driver and frequently got into near-accidents that almost killed my friends. An exceptionally egregious instance of this occurred when in a Walmart parking lot, I backed into the concrete base of a light post and destroyed my tail lights. 

This all changed when I grew up a little and finally got my second car. 

Friends know that I have long been a devoted proprietor of the humble station-wagon. It is a happy medium between the despicable SUV and the compact hatchback, two extremes in the world of “fuel-efficient” cars. A spacious, unpretentious build, the station-wagon boasts a maximum of five passengers and an attached trunk fit for a bachelor of my kind: a guy with a bunch of random shit in my car at all times. 

My first station-wagon was a 2007 Subaru Forrester with a crossover body, one of the last of its kind before the Forester model line fully transitioned into SUV territory. With its Garnet Red Pearl finish and flimsy trim, this machine boasted unconventional build features like four-wheel drive . A practical, no-nonsense choice for me after high school. The site of many hookups and a barely-transitioning self, I will always reminisce whenever I see it around town. 

It’s difficult to forget your first, despite it being my second.

As a living nuisance, I’ll point out cars I used to own to whoever’s listening and take them along on a self-indulgent nostalgia trip, conjuring a memory with what little eidetic facilities I have left. I’m as knowledgeable about cars as the next guy, but with me, I tend to misremember and bullshit my way through any car factoids. This is all a part of my elaborate and bespoke gender performance, I assure you. 

However, it is in a dour mood that I report to you, fair Reader, that I have personally fielded many complaints about there being too many Hyundai Elantra Tourings within Peterborough city limits. As a current driver of this specific model of some ill-repute, I loathe to agree. I too have sighted many of the very same wagon I whip around in, and each time it crosses my line of sight, it makes me feel regretful pangs for ever purchasing one. The frequency of seeing a little gay person behind the wheel of a Touring is far too high for my liking.

I despise having passengers point out my exact make and model of car, but in a different colour I hate, like a gaudy sterling blue. I feel a pit form in the bottom of my stomach at its every occurrence, crushing my optimistic and whimsical spirit into ash. When this happens, I become less different, and the mere notion of having a vehicle in common with another person—let alone another Trent undergraduate—frightens me to the core. What happened to this individuality I was promised through participating in society? The freedom through choice? Is it all but a delusion marketed to me by the spirits of capital? Am I… sheeple?

As an extension of my identity—a Phantom Limb, if you’ll have me—my vehicle being similar to others is an affront to all that is David. Clearly I have tried to differentiate myself from the growing horde of Touring connoisseurs through my bestickered bumper, chock full of niche references and obscene swear words. It is a representation of my outward self, a creature so guided by images that it is overwhelmed by the possibility of being homogenous with the rest of the Elantra fleet. It reinforces my presentation, and by God does it work.

Funnily enough, this series of incidents has allowed me to look inward, and determine where my heart truly lies. After my top surgery, I haven’t been able to drive for some weeks prior to this gripe being published. I’ve had to revert to humble pedestrianism—walking, taking transit, bumming rides—and I’m pleased to report that this has spurred a debugging of sorts.

The vehicle reliance our society enshrines through infinite lane expansionism and urban sprawl has seeped into my brain, and has effectively rotted my capacity to appreciate the simple act of going from one place to another. I connect with the public spaces of our downtown and its neighbourhoods in a FAR more effective way without the commanding mediation of my personal vehicle. I am an acolyte in the neoliberal cult of the individual, and I want out. 

I am now speaking to you directly, Touring owners. 

If you’re reading this and also own a 2011 Hyundai Elantra Touring, how dare you do this to me? I think it’s more than appropriate for you to be run out of town for such an offence, for facilitating such an affront to my OUTSTANDING character and various cultural contributions to this fine municipality. 

Now I want to sell my car, you fucking dicks!

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